


Once So You Will Know the Price

by justkisa



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-30
Updated: 2017-09-30
Packaged: 2019-01-07 08:30:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12229263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justkisa/pseuds/justkisa
Summary: Diego goes home. Fede lets go of him.





	Once So You Will Know the Price

**Author's Note:**

> written for the kink prompt: held down, from the September Football Prompt Set 
> 
> 1) After seven years with Sevilla, Perotti left in February 2014 to go on loan to Boca Juniors (the team his father played for).
> 
> 2) At the end of the 2012/2013 season, Perotti publicly expressed a desire to leave Sevilla and go home to Argentina for personal reasons.

“They’re finally letting me go home,” Diego says. He says it with a smile. Fede looks past him, over his shoulder, at the painting on the far wall. It’s of a storm-tossed sea. Diego had convinced him to buy it years ago. When Fede had bought his house, Diego had picked the spot where the painting still hangs. 

“Fede?” Diego says. 

Fede looks down at his knees. Runs his fingertips along the line of the sofa cushion. The dark gray upholstery has only gotten softer with age. He picks at a loose thread. Thinks about Diego sprawled across the sofa in the showroom, smiling up at him, saying, _this is the one, Fede, you have to get it_.

“Fede,” Diego says again. Sharp, impatient with Fede’s inattention. Diego hates being ignored more than anything else. 

Fede looks up. “Oh,” he says, “Ah, when?”

“Saturday,” Diego says. Saturday’s four days away. “I know,” Diego says, “it’s fast but—“ He sounds excited. Relieved. Fede feels like he’s swallowed stones. Like—

He looks away again. “Which,” he says, pushing the words out, “Team?”

“Boca,” Diego says. Fede looks back. That’s Diego’s father’s team. The team he once told Fede, drunk and contemplative in a way he never is sober, that he never really wanted to play for because he didn’t want to put on the jersey his father wore, didn’t want to carry his father’s shadow across the pitch with him.

“I see,” Fede says. 

Diego shrugs. “I know I—“ he says then stops. “It’s home, though, I can, Fede, I can go home.“ 

Fede looks away. “Yeah,” he says. Above the television there are dozens of pictures in mostly matching frames. They fill the wall. If he were closer, he would be able to see Diego looking back at him from behind the glass. Smiling. Posing with Fede. With Fede’s family. With both of their families. With their teammates old and new. “Sure,” he says, “Home.”

***

On Friday, they have a good-bye dinner. Their teammates and friends crowd into their favorite restaurant. Diego drinks wine until he’s flushed and laughing and his gestures are wild and expansive. He flits from person to person. Circling back around to Fede again and again, to touch his shoulder, to lean in to repeat something someone’s said to him, before he’s gone again, the imprint of his hand still warm against Fede’s skin.

Fede stays in his seat. He turns his only (unfinished) glass of wine slowly, presses it down, watches the wrinkled table linen smooth under the press of the base of the glass. 

They stay until they and their guests are the only ones left in the restaurant, until, Juan, the older man who owns the place, comes and says apologetically to Fede, “I really must close soon.” 

Fede pushes his still unfinished wine away and stands up. “Of course,” he says, “I will— Of course.” Juan smiles and pats his back. 

Fede makes his way to Diego. He touches Diego’s side. Diego looks back at him and smiles. “Fede, hey,” he says, “Fede, FedeFa,” sing-song and teasing. 

“Juan,” Fede says, letting his hand drop from Diego’s side, “He needs to close soon.” 

Diego’s head falls forward. “Oh,” he says, “Right. Okay. Okay, Fede. I’ll—“ He waves at the chattering, laughing mass of their gathered friends. “I’ll—“

Fede steps away. Turns his back so he doesn’t have to watch Diego say good-bye over and over and over again.

Fede’s finishing up with Juan, slipping him a generous something extra for the inconvenience that comes with their sprawling collection of friends and teammates, when Diego comes, wraps his arms around his waist, drops his head against Fede’s shoulder, and says, “Take me home, Fede.” 

Fede steps away. “You aren’t going home until tomorrow.”

Diego huffs and pushes close again. He rubs his face against Fede’s shoulder and says, “You know what I meant.” 

They walk the short distance to Fede’s house, meandering slowly along the darkened streets. 

Diego loops his arm around Fede’s waist and chatters the whole way. Telling Fede about what this person or that person said. He gestures with his free hand while he talks and pulls and plucks at Fede’s shirt with his other, because he can never be still. His hands always move with his mouth. 

He trips over a curb and Fede brings his arm up and steadies him. When Fede tries to take his arm away after, Diego reaches up, grabs Fede’s fingers, and hauls his arm around his shoulders. When Diego lets go of Fede’s fingers, Fede leaves his arm where it is. Diego makes a low, content sound and burrows into Fede’s side.

Fede doesn’t let go of Diego until they get to his front door and he has to get out his keys. He locks the door behind them and turns to find Diego right there in front of him. 

Diego smiles up at him. “Thanks,” Diego says, stepping into him, sliding his hands along Fede’s sides, “Tonight was— Thanks.” He tips up and touches his mouth to Fede’s. It’s soft. Affectionate. But it feels like—

Fede turns his head. “I didn’t—” he says, “It was just dinner.”

Diego hums and presses a kiss to the corner of Fede’s mouth. “Let me,” he says, pulling Fede’s shirt up and slipping his hands underneath it, “thank you anyway.” His hands are warm. Familiar on Fede’s skin. 

Fede pushes him back. “Diego—“ 

Diego looks up at him, his brows furrowed. “Fede?” 

“Not,” Fede says, “Ah, not here, let’s—“ He gestures toward the hall to the bedrooms. 

“Whatever you want,” Diego says. He says it carelessly with a smile but, for a second, Fede can’t breathe. _Whatever he wants_. He wants—

Diego reaches for him as soon as they’re in the bedroom. And Fede needs— He catches hold of Diego’s wrists. Diego stills. “Fede?” he says, soft, a little breathless. 

“Whatever,” Fede says, pressing his fingertips against the underside of Diego’s wrists, “I want, right?”

He can see Diego swallow. “Yeah, Fede,” Diego says, his voice gone low and rough, “Whatever you want.” 

Fede lets go of him. “Sit on the end of the bed.” 

They don’t do this often. 

And only if Diego asks for it. 

Usually Fede lets himself fall into Diego, into what Diego wants. Lets himself get taken along by the blistering, hurricane rush that is Diego. But today he can’t. He can’t let go. Can’t get lost in Diego that way when Diego’s slipping through his fingers. When he’s getting on a plane tomorrow to go— 

_Away._

He needs—

To hold on. To—

“Fede?” 

He blinks. Diego’s sitting on the end of the bed. 

And Fede—

Fede doesn’t know what he wants to do with him. Doesn’t—

Finally, he says, “Take off your shoes,” because he has to start somewhere.

He doesn’t watch to see if Diego listens instead he bends and takes off his own shoes.

When he straightens up, Diego’s leaning back on his hands, watching him. His shoes are on the floor to his left. 

Fede crosses the space between them. Diego smiles, slow and lazily beguiling, and spreads his legs, makes a space for Fede to step into. Fede stops short. Stays separate. Diego’s smile dims. “Move back,” Fede says. 

Diego raises his eyebrows but he does it, shuffles back until his feet aren’t dangling over the end. “Stop,” Fede says, “There.” He takes that last step forward, now, the one that brings him to the end of the bed. 

He climbs onto the bed. Kneels above Diego’s legs, his knees lined up with Diego’s hips, his calves brushing against Diego’s thighs. Diego tips his head back, smiles, lifts his hand. “No,” Fede says. He can see Diego consider it in the way he cocks his head to the side, the way he touches his tongue to his upper lip. “No,” he says again and Diego puts his hand back down. 

Fede sits back. Diego grunts, makes a sound like Fede’s knocked the breath out of him. “Shit, Fede,” he says, “You trying to break my knees?” 

“You can take it,” Fede says. 

Diego opens his mouth. Closes it. Then he relaxes. His head lolls back, his shoulders drop, and he smiles. “Yeah,” he says, “Yeah, I can. Can take whatever you got.”

“Lift your arms up,” Fede says. 

Diego has to straighten up to comply. He stares right at Fede and lifts his arms. Fede stares back and grabs fistfuls of Diego’s shirt. He doesn’t look down just reaches out, catches hold, and pulls up. Diego sucks in a breath. Fede can feel his chest jump against his knuckles. 

Fede pulls Diego’s shirt up until it’s up over his face, banding his arms in place. It’s tight enough that, when Fede lets go the shirt stays put. “Fede,” Diego says, soft and a little muffled. Fede touches his fingertips to Diego’s throat, just under his chin, presses down so he can feel the thud of Diego’s pulse. He curves his hand around Diego’s throat. “Fede,” Diego says again, stuttering and breathy. 

Fede digs his fingertips into Diego’s skin. Just for a moment. Just long enough to feel Diego swallow then he lets go. “I—” he says, hooking his fingers under the collar of Diego’s shirt, “I’m going to pull this up now.” 

He’s as careful as he can be but the shirt is tight and pulling it up over Diego’s head leaves him flushed and red from the fabric rubbing across his skin. Fede leaves one hand fisted in Diego’s shirt, holds it there over his head, and skims his fingers along Diego’s cheek. “You wear your shirts too tight.” 

Diego quirks his mouth up. “You like it.” 

Fede rubs his thumb along the flushed curve of Diego’s cheek. “Maybe,” he says, and Diego smiles. 

Fede drags Diego’s shirt up his arms, leaves it around his wrists. He curls his hands around Diego’s arms and pushes. 

Diego goes down easy. Goes almost limp as Fede lifts up onto his knees and presses him down. Fede sits back and Diego arches up, moving between Fede’s thighs. He tugs his wrists as far apart as he can, and says, “Aren’t you gonna—“ 

Fede plants his hand in the middle of Diego’s chest and pushes down. “No.”

Diego huffs. “Fede,” he says, squirming under Fede, “C’mon.” 

Fede leans in, shifts more of his weight into the press of his hand against Diego’s chest. Diego grunts, punched out and breathless. “I said, no.” 

Diego licks his lips. “Okay. Okay.”

“Stay,” Fede says, leaning a little more, “Still,” then lifts his hand. 

He waits.

Diego’s still. Splayed out across Fede’s sheets. Bound. The red fabric of his shirt bright against the white of the sheets and the gold of Diego’s skin. 

Fede wants to keep him just like this. Wants to stare. To memorize every line of Diego, every curve, every sharp angle. From the blunt slashes of his eyebrows, to the dip of his collarbone, to the knobby edges of his elbows. 

He sets his fingertips at the bunched up edge of Diego’s shirt, against the delicate skin of Diego’s wrists. He skims his way down Diego’s arms, into the dip of his elbows, along the curve of his biceps. Diego’s warm. His skin like damp velvet under Fede’s fingertips. When Fede drags his fingertips along his armpits, he gasps, shudders, quick and jerky, like he wasn’t expecting it, like Fede’d trailed electric current along his skin. “F-fede,” he says, then lower, like a sigh, “Fede.”

Fede keeps going. Trails his fingertips in slow circles over Fede’s chest. Goes around his nipples but doesn’t touch them. He wishes he could dip his finger-tips in ink. Wishes he could see his touch on Diego’s skin. Wishes he could mark him as thoroughly - as permanently - as Diego has marked his own skin. 

“Fede,” Diego says, “ _Fede_ , please.”

“Shh,” Fede says, letting his fingertips dip into Diego’s bellybutton, “Just—“ He drags his fingertips down. He shifts back so he can work open the button of Diego’s jeans. 

When he starts to ease Diego’s zipper down, Diego hums, lifts his hips up. Fede presses the heel of his hand down against Diego’s dick. “Be,” Fede says, “Still.” 

Diego huffs but settles back down. Fede drags his zipper down.  He runs his fingers along the waistband of Diego’s jeans. When he gets to the line of Diego’s hip-bones, he stops, hooks his fingers underneath. “Now,” he says, looking up at Diego. Diego’s curled his fingers into the bunched up fabric of his shirt, holding it tight, the skin across his knuckles taut. He’s flushed. His mouth open. “Lift up,” Fede says. 

Diego does. He can’t lift up far. Not bound. Not with Fede’s weight holding his legs down. But he does it. He presses his shoulders and arms down and lifts up. His eyes flutter closed. Fede tugs his pants and underwear down to the middle of his thighs. Diego’s quaking with the effort to hold himself up with so little leverage. Fede brushes his hand across Diego’s stomach and Diego sighs. “Lay back down now,” he says.

Diego drops back against the sheets with an rough exhalation of breath and opens his eyes. 

Fede must pause too long. Transfixed by the sweat-slick gleam of Diego’s skin. The red curve of his mouth. The line of his throat, from the pale underside of his chin, to the curve of his collarbone. Because Diego says, rough and a little strained, “So, what’re you going to do now, Fede? _Hmm_? Just sta—”

Fede clamps his hand over Diego’s mouth. Diego’s eyes go wide and Fede can feel the muffled end of Diego’s words against his palm. “I,” he says, “Am going to do whatever I want.” He lifts his hand. “Understand?”

“Yeah,” Diego says, low and rough, “Fede.” He pauses, smiles, slow and open. “Whatever you want.” 

Heat blooms along Fede’s skin. He feels prickly and restless. Desperate without know exactly what for. He pushes up onto his knees. He jerks his shirt up and over his head. He throws it away without looking. Diego makes a soft, humming sound of approval. And Fede can’t look at him. Can’t— 

He moves up until he’s kneeling above Diego’s chest. He looks back at Diego and Diego smiles, like he’s figured Fede out. Fede unbuttons and unzips his pants, pushes them down just enough to get out his dick. 

Fede pushes his hand under Diego’s head and Diego lifts it for him as soon as his fingers graze his hair. He threads his fingers through the damp strands of Diego’s hair and tips his head up. Diego’s mouth is open before Fede even nudges the head of his dick against it. Even bound, spread out underneath Fede, Diego’s leading while Fede follows behind. 

Fede waits. Holds himself - Diego - still with Diego’s mouth just brushing his dick. Tries to snatch back control. Diego pushes forward, dragging Fede’s hand with him. Because Fede’s never had control around Diego. Not from the first moment he’d set eyes on him. But he fists his hand in Diego’s hair, pulls him back, and pretends the illusion of control is enough. 

“Fede,” Diego says, wheedling and low, “Please.” 

And Fede waits. Waits. Until he’s sweating with the effort of it. He can feel Diego’s breath against his dick. Can— And he _wants_. But he waits. Waits until Diego says, “Please,” again, his voice gone ragged. Then Fede pulls Diego up, guides his dick into Diego’s mouth with an unsteady hand. 

Diego moans, soft and satisfied, and the sound of it, _God_ , it’s almost as good as the heat of his mouth around Fede’s dick. 

When Fede pulls back, Diego says, “Fede, Fede, let me,” and he punctuates his words with little licks, hot flicks of his tongue across the tip of Fede’s dick, “Let me.” He’s squirming, plucking at his shirt with his fingers. “Want to touch you. Want—“

“No,” Fede says and pushes his dick back into Diego’s mouth, “Like this. Just your mouth. Show—“ He pulls Diego up, presses in as deep as he can. Diego whines but he sucks greedily. His cheeks hollowing out. “Show me,” Fede says, and the words are breathy, punched out of him, “What you can do with just your mouth.” And Diego does. 

Fede keeps Diego there until his wrist aches, until his thighs tremble with the effort to keep himself braced above Diego, until Diego’s squirming between his legs. 

He lets go. Catches himself with both hands before he collapses down. Diego moans. It’s a wanting, dissatisfied sound. Fede can’t attend to it. Can’t do anything but try and catch his breath. 

Diego lifts up. Gets his mouth on Fede’s dick. He licks, messy and fast, along the underside. “D-diego,” Fede can barely get the words out, can barely think past the hot, blurring pleasure that buzzes across his skin, “Don’t—“ Diego does it again. Lifts up. Swipes his tongue across Fede’s balls. He does it over and over. They’re desperate, sloppy touches. Diego straining up, putting his mouth on whatever part of Fede he can reach. And he’s going to wreck Fede that way. Bring him crashing down. 

Fede drags himself back, out of Diego’s reach. Diego whines. “No. No. Fede, _Fede_ , please.” He’s restless under Fede. He squirms, his hips twitch up. He’s hard, leaking all over his belly. From having his mouth on Fede. His mouth which is reddened, swollen-wet, from being used. “Please,” he says again. 

But the wanting clawing at Fede is past what can be assuaged by Diego’s mouth. He stops trying to keep himself up. Lets himself collapse down onto Diego. 

He doesn’t move for a moment. Turns his face into Diego’s neck. Opens his mouth and breathes. He can taste the smell of Diego, tang of sweat and something over-ripely sweet. He breathes, in and out, and lets the heat of Diego’s skin seep into his. 

“Fede, _mmm_.” Fede shifts, gets his mouth on Diego’s throat so he can feel the hum of his words. “F-fede.” Diego’s voice is stretched, breathless. “Please.” He shifts under Fede. He can’t move. Not really. But he tries. Pushes up. And Fede feels every place Diego moves against him. The rub of Diego’s skin against his is like sparks. 

Fede pushes up. Diego arches into him. “Fede, ple—“ And Fede can’t listen to him too, can’t have Diego’s voice, low and rough, humming in his ears. Can’t bear it.  He kisses him, catches his words with his mouth. 

It doesn’t silence Diego. He moans, low and guttural. And Fede had kissed him but Diego surges into the kiss until it’s Fede who’s being kissed. Being taken over. And Fede needs—

Fede wrenches himself away. Diego whines. He struggles against the crumpled band of his shirt, reaches up, like he means to drag Fede back down. And Fede can’t let him. He _can’t_.  

He grapples, scrambles his hands around Diego’s arms. He pushes himself up and presses Diego down. His hands slip on Diego’s sweat-slick skin. He squeezes. He gets ahold of Diego’s wrists and holds on so tight Diego’s bones dig into his palms. 

It quiets Diego. Reduces him to short, huffing pants. Fede licks at Diego’s open mouth and moves. For a scant moment, Diego’s still. Then he isn’t. Fede can only hold on to Diego. Hold on so tight that his palms burn. So tight his fingers ache. And he _moves_. Rubs and grinds against Diego, chasing  the pleasure that’s unfurling through him in great, battering waves of heat. 

Diego surges up and crashes his mouth into Fede’s. Fede’s too far gone to do anything but open his mouth. Let him in. Diego bites at his mouth and the sharp sting of it is what unravels Fede.  

Fede stays where he’s crumpled, face half-wedged between Diego’s cheek and Diego’s arm until Diego murmurs, hoarse and breathless, “Fede,” his mouth brushing against Fede’s ear, “ _mmm_ , shit, Fede, that was...” 

Fede pushes himself up. Diego smiles up at him, sweet and slow.  Satisfaction makes Diego soft, smoothes out his sharper edges. Fede gets himself up onto his knees. 

Letting go of Diego is-- 

Fede’s hands feel locked in place. He rocks himself back onto his heels and his hands slip free. He opens and closes his hands. His fingers ache. He can still feel the dig of Diego’s bones into his palms. 

Fede leans over. “Here,” he says, carefully tugging Diego’s shirt up and over his hands, “Let me--” He can see, on Diego’s wrists, the shape of his hands emblazoned on Diego’s skin. 

“Thanks,” Diego says, but he leaves his arms where they are. Fede skims his fingertips along Diego’s wrist, along the the imprint left behind by his hand. Then he shifts down, so he can ease Diego’s pants and underwear down his legs. Diego lifts his head. “I can--”

Fede shakes his head. “Let me.”

Diego flops back down. “‘Kay.” 

Once Fede gets Diego undressed, frees him from the tangle of his pants, Diego reaches up. “Come here, _hmm_ ,” he says with a smile.  

“I’m just--” Fede says, “Just going to get something to clean you up.”  Diego pouts but doesn’t say anything more. 

Diego’s half-asleep when Fede comes back. He doesn’t open his eyes while Fede cleans him up just murmurs something that might be Fede’s name. Fede drops the washcloth on the floor and shucks off his pants. 

Fede gets into bed and Diego mumbles, “ _Mmm_ , get th’blanket  m’cold.” Fede pushes himself back up and reaches down for the sheets and blankets. He settles them on top of both of them and lays back. “C’mere,” Diego says, his voice rough, slurring with sleep, “ _hmm_ , c’mon.”

Fede can’t. He’d let Diego go. Pried his fingers loose. Torn himself away. And he can’t reach out and gather him in again. Can’t--

Diego rolls into him. Settles against Fede’s side. And Fede falls asleep like that, lulled by the heat of Diego pressed against him, but with empty hands, empty arms.

Fede wakes up first. Diego’s moved away from him during the night. He’s curled on his side, facing away from Fede. 

When Fede gets out of bed, Diego doesn’t stir. Fede lets himself look at him for a moment. The skin of his wrists is unmarred. The marks Fede left gone. Temporary only. 

Fede used to count the mornings like this. The mornings when he woke up with Diego in his bed. But eventually there were too many to count. Then it became easier to count the mornings he woke up to an empty bed. Now--

Fede looks away.  Moves away. 

He goes to the dresser and pulls out something to wear. He stares into the drawer. At the mish-mash of his clothes with Diego’s. He leaves the drawer open after he gets dressed and starts separating them. He doesn’t stop with that drawer. He opens them all. Separates and folds until the whole top of the dresser is covered in Diego’s things.

He goes to the closet to get one of his older suitcases out of the top of the closet. And Diego’s things are there too. A pair of shoes in the corner. A jacket he never wears and forgot here long ago. A suit he’d never liked and abandoned on Fede’s floor. Fede grabs them along with the suitcase. He shoves everything inside the bag. Zips it up. 

Diego sleeps through it all. 

Fede takes the bag with him. He leaves it by the door and goes into the kitchen.

The routine of making coffee is soothing. It never changes. 

Diego comes in when Fede’s taking his first sip. He leans into Fede’s back, wraps his arms around Fede’s waist and says, “Morning,” against the space between Fede’s shoulder-blades. 

Fede holds himself still. Swallows. “Morning,” he says.

Diego rubs his face against Fede’s back. “Coffee. Give me coffee.” 

Fede turns in Diego’s arms. Diego’s put on his pants but not his shirt. Fede hands him the mug. Diego smiles and takes a sip. Fede edges away from him and goes to get another cup. “Make toast,” Diego says, “Please.”

Fede nods absently. “‘Kay, yeah.” 

They don’t talk much during breakfast. Just desultory, _pass the jam_ , conversation.

When there’s no more toast, Diego turns the butter knife in a circle and says, without looking at Fede, “I--I should--” He stops but Fede knows the rest. 

Diego has toast crumbs clinging to the corner of his mouth. Maybe, on another morning, Fede would’ve leaned over. Wiped them away. Teased him about it. Instead, Fede looks away. “Right,” he says, “Sure. Of course.”

Fede stays in the kitchen and finishes his coffee while Diego goes and gets dressed. 

He gets up when he hears Diego coming back up the hallway. He finds Diego by the door, fiddling with the handle of the suitcase. “Ready?” Fede says. 

“What’s this?” Diego says. He doesn’t turn around. 

“Just--just clothes, shoes, stuff you--” _left_. Fede can’t say it. He just lets the silence stretch.

“You,”  Diego says. And he still doesn’t turn. Doesn’t look at Fede. But that’s better. “You really want me to go.” It’s not quite a question.

“You,” Fede says and the words feel ground out, “You want to go.”

Diego shakes the suitcase. “So, what? You packed my bags?” 

“You--you might need your stuff,” Fede says. 

Diego whirls around. “It’s just a loan Fede, God, it’s not-- I’ll be back.”

Maybe it’s true. Maybe it’s not. But either way he’s going. Leaving.

Fede shrugs and looks away. “You still might need it.” 

Diego laughs a little. “Always looking out for me, huh, Fede?”

And Fede almost says, _yes, always_ , almost lets the words slip right out of him. He bites his tongue, traps the words behind his teeth. Swallows them back. Then, when those words are pushed down, buried deep, he says, as lightly as he can, “Well, someone has to.” 

“And what,” Diego says, “You’re just the lucky one?”

Fede looks back at him. “More like unlucky.” 

Diego smiles, real and wide, and reaches out to smack his arm. “Fuck you.”  Then Diego opens his arms and says, “Come here.” 

Fede steps forward into the hug. When Fede lets Diego go, Diego pokes Fede in the middle of his chest and says, “I’ll see you soon, FedeFa, okay?”

Fede does his best to smile. “Sure,” he says, “Soon,” and wonders if he’s ever believed anything less. 

Diego turns, picks up the suitcase, and walks out the door. 

And Fede turns and faces his empty house.


End file.
